Slipping Through the Cracks
by RebelWriter6561
Summary: Living in the Lower-Upper Class, there's not a lot of freedom. So you take whatever chances you get. And without pain, what's the point of living?


~*~Ye Gods, it's a miracle! I can write again!  
End of winter I find myself writing like a fiend. Spring comes, and all that motivation just flies right out the window. I don't know why, but it's a pain in the ass.  
But here's the proof that I still got it! This is my very loose guesstimate about how Worth ended up where he was.  
Warnings: Drug use, mention of blood, minor swearing, slight social commentary-I mean, what?  
Musical Muse: My Chemical Romance. But if anyone catches the other musical reference I made I will be so amazed.  
Disclaimer: I'm not the brilliant genius that came up with these lovely characters.

~*~Slipping Through the Cracks*~*

Living in the Lower-Upper Class, there's not a lot of freedom. So you take whatever chances you get.

For the first eighteen years of his life, Luce Worth rebelled against his crisp-clean mother and straight-laced father in small ways. They were only aware of a few of his rebellious acts, mostly those that dealt with his association with Lamont Toucey. Oh, how they hated Lamont. That smelly little brat who was soiling their son's image.

But beneath the cover that the never-ending friendship between the two, Luce was giving the middle finger to his parents in other ways. By the time he hit puberty, he started burning the tips of his fingers, pricking his arms with pins, and getting into fights with kids who were much bigger than he was. They didn't understand why their perfect son was getting hurt so often, but what they didn't realize was how much he _loved _hurting himself.

Soon after, he began dabbling in drugs. Cigarettes and alcohol quickly lost their buzz, pot was calming at best, but his favorites were the hard-core drugs that knocked him on his ass and made him feel _alive_.

It was in those experiments, leading up to his graduation of high school, where he noticed the whole other world outside of his parent's social sphere. It was a nitty-gritty disgusting world that was so unlike what he knew, inhabited by stoners and druggies and so many _interesting _things. And he _wanted _to explore it.

But college loomed up, and he stepped into the academic world. Medical school was hard, but he loved the challenge. Long nights, impossible odds, knowing that each class took him one step closer to being a doctor. The _only _thing that he had ever _really _wanted in his life.

But as time went on, he was pushed face-to-face with how much _bullshit_ there was in his future. Playing nice to his patients, his fellow doctors, kissing ass to people who he hated, who did not deserve his respect. Even if he was doing what he loved, what was the _point_?

He began to lose sleep, smoking cigarette after cigarette feeling that those precious few moments where his lungs were filled with smoke were the only times he felt _alive_.

He cut his hand during a practice surgery session. He was told to go to the nurse, but instead went to his apartment. He stood in his bathroom, staring at the cut on his hand. It throbbed slowly in time with his heartbeat. So slow. Uncaring.

He looked up, looked at his reflection in the mirror. The face that looked back at his was a tired worn-down man's, trapped in society, unable to break out.

He didn't want to be that man.

Luce Worth punched the mirror, cut up his knuckles. He grabbed a shard, sliced his arms back and forth, creating cross-hatches on his arms. Blood gushed down his arm. He could _feel _each slice cutting his skin to ribbons, bright sparks of pain that made his heart beat faster and faster.

He wrapped his arms, packed his bags, robbed his roommates, and left, lab coat swinging. The only thing that remained was a note asking that no one look for him.

He didn't want to be found.

Luce Worth slipped through the cracks in society, in the safety net that his parent's life created for him. He went underground, smoked, drank, and injected anything he could get his hands on. He was bleeding constantly. He was killing himself, and had never felt so _alive_.

Through it all, he was lucid enough to know what he was doing. He was always aware of each hit, each cut. He knew his boundaries, tested them, toed the line, and savored each time he almost didn't recover. He was having a blast.

It was there, living in the filthy drug world, when he saw more cracks under him, shadows in the corners. He became aware of the whole different _world_ that no one, _no one_, knew about or noticed. He saw men that he _knew_ were dead party like they were alive. He noticed girls with bite marks on their necks, boys who had no reflection, ageless people who weren't human. He slunk slowly into that world, learning about them, their behaviors. He was fascinated by the non-humans that played in their own little world.

He stepped out of the drug world, but kept his foot in the door of the supernatural one. He found some scummy back alley, set himself up as a doctor, and watched as men, women, and creatures stumbled in for treatment. He wondered why he seemed to be the first shmuck to have thought of this. Everyone needed doctors. He could fulfill his dreams, they got treatment. He could be an asshole, they could bitch back. Everybody wins.

He got in touch with Lamont, was unsurprised to find him dealing in the black market, conducted a few deals, blackened a few eyes, and found himself with a thriving business, and was actually _sorta kinda _happy.

Then a ginger that by all rights should be dead stumbled through his door. Hanna was ultimately good for business, even if he never paid, because he spread the word to any supernaturals that Worth and Lamont missed, and sent them his way.

Then the night came where Hanna drug two dead guys into his office, and _joy_, one was a blast to play with. Stupid faggy little vampire. Who went through everything Worth had experienced, but wasn't a man enough to rebel like he had. But it was time for him to learn, and Worth was just the man to buck him up.

Besides, he wanted to get bitten by a vampire. At least once. And everyone could see that they complimented each other perfectly. Worth was a dick, Conrad was a bitch. They fit together.

If only the vampire saw it the same way, and stopped pitching a fit whenever Worth suggested he take a bite from his neck.

But Worth knew he would come around eventually. He'd get so hungry, and one of Worth's comments would send him over the edge, and he would attack. And he personally couldn't wait, because memories of his youth, when he stuck himself with pins, reminded him that he liked being hurt. A lot. His little doctor's life had gotten a little too perfect. He needed more pain to color it up.

Because without pain, what was the point of living?


End file.
